


Deal or no Deal

by Dimity Blue (Arnie)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Demons, Faustian Bargain, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1314250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnie/pseuds/Dimity%20Blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was, John knew, a good bargain, serving one hundred years of his deathtime in Hell in exchange for Sherlock's life. Really, when it came down to it, it was a no-brainer.</p><p>~~~</p><p>The only problem was that Sherlock wasn't actually dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deal or no Deal

**Author's Note:**

> For the [prompt](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/337750.html?thread=59821142): "John makes a bargain with a demon or the devil. In exchange for his own soul Sherlock will be resurrected from the grave."
> 
> Warnings: Demons and suicides.

John looked down at the paper in his hand, then back up at the address in front of him. This was it. He looked at the building next door and checked their number, then the one on the other side. Yes, this was definitely it. It was more discreet than he'd expected though - just a plain building in a row of buildings, with a tiny forecourt of gravel surrounded by wrought-iron railings. The sigil-marked door was the only giveaway.

He took a deep breath, then another. It was, he knew, a good bargain, serving one hundred years of his deathtime in Hell in exchange for Sherlock's life. Really, when it came down to it, it was a no-brainer. Sherlock would undoubtedly think otherwise - John had heard him pour scorn on those foolish enough, or desperate enough, to make a bargain with demons - but since Sherlock wasn't here to talk John out of it, what he thought didn't matter.

And once Sherlock was back and could argue about it, it would be too late. His mind made up, John gave a sharp nod, held his head high, and marched up the path to the sigil-marked door.

It opened easily, swinging back without any creaking of hinges to give warning to the unwary of where they were about to tread. John took a good look around before stepping inside. He'd heard about the place, of course; everyone knew someone - a friend of a friend - who'd been here. And the place had an exceptionally good reputation, none of that demon trickery so beloved of books and films. After all, they wanted people to sign contracts, and only the exceptionally desperate would sign a contract that was designed to trick you into far more than you'd bargained for. So far as demons were concerned, they left all that to mortal lawyers and stuck to plain terms that could be understood by the average person.

The inside was just as discreet as the outside. John wasn't sure what he'd expected, but the lobby of an old-fashioned bank wasn't it. It wasn't until he made eye contact with the human-looking demon at the front desk that the demon spoke.

"Good afternoon, sir."

John paused, then nodded. "Good afternoon." The demon was as well-dressed as Mycroft, he realised, as it (he?) was wearing a dark-grey three piece suit that looked as old-fashioned as their surroundings.

"Do you have an appointment, sir?"

"No." John hadn't known he'd need one...nor that they actually made appointments.

"A new customer, perhaps?" The demon smiled. "Not to worry, sir; I believe Mr. Smith is free. If you'll be kind enough to wait one moment." He indicated a row of upright chairs to one side.

John sat and waited as the demon knocked on one of the polished wooden doors set into the wall behind him, then opened the door and went in. There was a murmur of voices, then the demon reappeared followed by another human-looking demon in a three-piece suit who John presumed was 'Mr. Smith'.

"If you'll follow me, sir..."

As the first demon sat down at his desk, John entered the office, shook Mr. Smith's hand, and took a seat in the chair offered to him.

Mr. Smith sat behind the desk and smiled at John as though he were a valued customer. "Now, what can we do for you today, Mr...?"

"Doctor. Doctor John Watson." John swallowed. "Well...there's a friend of mine who...he..." He paused, unsure of how to phrase it.

"Passed over?"

"Yes. Though it was suicide."

"Ah." Mr. Smith sat back. "And you wish to have him brought back."

"Yes."

"And, in return for his resurrection, you are willing to spend one hundred years, after your death, in Hell."

John sat up straight and gave a sharp nod. "Yes."

"You are aware, Doctor Watson, that not of all those who voluntarily pass over are willing to resume their lives?" He paused, then added, plainly but gently, "His resurrection may be temporary."

"It was a misunderstanding. Sherlock would never have -" John stopped, unable to say more. He still couldn't believe Sherlock had killed himself - the whole series of events, from Sherlock's supposed ruin to his suicide, was insane.

"I see. If you are willing and able to pay the price, then there is nothing more to discuss. One moment, please."

As the demon disappeared through a door to the right, John took a deep breath, then another, feeling more chilled than he liked by the cold air that drifted in. It had, he realised, the feel of a dungeon. He leaned forward to see as much as he could without moving from his seat, but then Mr. Smith returned, a wooden tray balanced on one hand, and shut the door firmly behind him before placing the tray on the desk between them. John eyed it curiously. Apart from a piece of parchment and a rolled up scroll, all the tray held were two inkwells - one half-full of black ink, the other empty - and a pair of old-fashioned quills. Mr. Smith sat down, pulled the tray towards him and picked up the scroll.

After a long moment or two, he rolled it back up and smiled at John. "Quite satisfactory. We don't often get people of your calibre in here, you know. Quite often, they don't have any years to bargain with, which often comes as a bit of a shock to them, I can tell you."

"Really?" John eyed the scroll, wondering exactly what it said.

"Oh yes. You'd be surprised how many people think they can't possibly be headed for Downstairs, no matter what they've done. It's surprising how oblivious they can be." He put the scroll to one side and picked up one of the quills, suddenly returning to his more business-like demeanour. "Your friend's full name, please."

"Sherlock Holmes."

Mr. Smith began to write, the quill making soft scratching noises as it travelled across the parchment. After a few moments, Mr. Smith laid his quill down and handed the parchment over. "If you object to the terms, now is the time to debate them."

Taking the parchment, John looked down and read:

_I, John Hamish Watson, being of sound mind, do solemnly swear that I will spend one hundred (100) years in Hell after my demise in return for the resurrection from death of Sherlock Holmes, who will be returned to his life healthy and unharmed within one (1) hour of this contract being signed._

John reached for the quill and mentally braced himself, even though he was fairly sure - from he'd heard - that nothing would actually happen until after his own death.

Mr. Smith stopped him. "If the terms are acceptable, please place the forefinger of your writing hand in the empty inkwell."

For a few seconds, John stared at him, then he picked up the inkwell and dipped his left forefinger into it. There was a slight stabbing pain, then the inkwell half-filled with what John realised was his blood.

"Now you may sign, if you still wish."

John felt a bit queasy, and checked the tip of his finger before picking up the quill. There was no sign of any puncture mark, which he reflected was a good thing or half of their quills would end up in a mess. Resolutely, he dipped the tip into the inkwell and began to sign, then frowned as nothing happened.

"Try pressing a little harder."

John did, holding the quill down until he thought the tip had to rip through the parchment, but still no signature appeared.

"Perhaps another quill." Mr. Smith produced a fresh one and handed it over, but his smile faded when all of John's efforts came to nothing. "Well, this is most unusual." Mr. Smith's fingers tapped on the desk surface for a brief moment, then, "You don't have any previous contracts with us, do you?"

"No." John was sure he would have remembered going through this before.

"No, I thought not; it would have been on your scroll." After another silence, Mr. Smith said, "If you'll excuse me, I'll confer with one of my colleagues." He rose from his chair and went to the double doors behind him and knocked on one quietly before opening the door. Within a few minutes, he was back. "If you'd like to come with me, Doctor Watson, I'm sure we can get this sorted out."

John followed him into a bigger, more impressive looking office and was greeted by a taller, still human-looking demon, who smiled at him.

"How do you do, Doctor Watson. I'm Mr. Jones. I believe we're having some trouble with signing a contract."

As John sat down, the tray, complete with parchment and inkwell was placed in front of him and Mr. Jones handed him a quill.

"If you'd just like to sign on the dotted line..."

John did but, again, nothing happened.

"Perhaps a little bit more force...? Ah, no, I see that isn't working. If I could just..." Mr. Jones took the quill from him and dipped it into the blood-filled inkwell then marked a quick 'x' in one corner. "Well, that worked well enough." He replaced the quill and sat back, gazing at John with interest on his face. "Most interesting. So far as I'm aware, this hasn't happened before, you see. And there's no previous contract?"

John and Mr. Smith chorused, "No."

Mr. Jones continued, "No, no, there wouldn't be..." He gazed at John some more, then nodded. "I'll just confer with one of my colleagues. Excuse me."

As he retreated to the double doors behind him, Mr. Smith went with him. Mr. Jones knocked on the door, there was a quiet, "Come in," then they both disappeared into the office beyond. After a minute or two, they returned.

"If you'll come this way, Doctor Watson."

Mr. Smith hurried past him to collect the tray, then followed him in and hovered behind him as John was greeted by 'Mr. Taylor' who shook his hand like an old friend and offered him a seat. As John sat, Mr. Smith put the tray down and took his place beside Mr. Jones.

"So, Doctor Watson," Mr. Taylor folded his hands over his ample stomach and beamed at John, "we're having trouble getting this contract signed, I understand." As John nodded, he continued, "Would you mind a little demonstration?"

"Not at all." John picked up the quill and repeated his attempts to sign.

"Interesting..." Mr. Taylor leaned forward, peering over a pair of half-moon glasses. "And Mr. Jones was able to mark the contract without issue."

"Yes, sir." Mr. Jones hurriedly stepped forward and indicated the small 'x'. "There was no problem at all," he said, then stepped back again.

Mr. Taylor sat back in his chair again, gazing at John in a friendly fashion. "And there's no previous contract."

As John repeated his, "No," Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones joined in echoing him.

"Interesting... And, uh, any _visitations_ of late?"

John had no idea what he was talking about. "Visitations?"

"Angels. Haloes...wings? No?"

"Not that I'm aware of." John folded his arms; he'd been led to believe it was a simple matter and the delays were starting to irritate him. "Look, I just want to sign a contract and get Sherlock resurrected."

"Yes, I do apologise. I don't believe we've ever..." Mr. Taylor gazed at the contract again, then suddenly said, "You haven't been blessed recently, have you?"

"No."

"No, no, that wouldn't prevent it anyway." Mr. Taylor fell silent for a long moment, then, "I'm afraid I'll have to confer with one of my colleagues." He got to his feet, murmuring, "Most unusual," then made his way to the door behind him and knocked gently on it.

John turned his attention to the other two demons, who were staring at each other with looks of disbelief on their faces, then they hurried after Mr. Taylor and all three disappeared into the other room.

Left alone, John looked around the room. It was far more impressive than Mr. Smith's or even Mr. Jones's office. The desk was larger, the chairs more comfortable; even the carpet had a more expensive feel to it.

"Doctor Watson, if you'd like to come this way..."

John got up and followed Mr. Taylor as Mr. Smith fetched the tray and followed on behind them. As 'Mr. Williams' shook his hand and encouraged him to take a seat in a deep, comfortable leather chair, John felt a bit tired of seeing ever more impressive offices and just wanted to get the whole thing over with.

"Well, this is interesting," Mr. Williams told John as he sat down. "I don't believe we've had a situation like it." He leaned forward and added, his tone confidential, "This is the first time I've had to meet a member of the public. Well, apart from the ones Downstairs, that is, but they're hardly members of the public - more...very junior members of the firm." He smiled, showing a set of rather pointy teeth. "But that won't interest you. No, it's this contract..." He indicated the tray and contract in front of John, then his sharp gaze turned to Mr. Taylor. "You've checked the Watson family scroll?"

"Mr. Smith did, sir."

Mr. Smith stepped forward, aided, John noticed, by a push from Mr. Jones. "Oh, yes, sir; it's all in order. I checked most definitely." He gave a half-bow as soon as he'd finished speaking and quickly stepped back into place.

"Well, since the problem doesn't seem to be on your end... What date did your friend...pass on?"

John swallowed. "The 16th of June."

"This year?" As John nodded, Mr. Williams waved a lazy hand. "This year's death book, Mr. Taylor."

"Yes, sir. Mr. Jones, fetch this year's death book."

"Yes, sir. Mr. Smith, fetch this year's death book."

Mr. Smith hurried over to one of the tall, deep bookcases that filled the back wall, and John realised there were no double doors leading to a 'more senior' office. The only door was to the side and led, John guessed, to the large, cold room where his scroll had been stored. The other side wall was dominated by a large fireplace, the fire in it making the room uncomfortably warm.

Mr. Williams placed the book flat on his desk and began flipping through the pages. "June... Ah, here we are." He muttered to himself as he ran a finger down a column, then stopped and looked up at John. "There's no Sherlock Holmes." As John stared back at him, totally lost as to how Sherlock couldn't be listed, he continued, "A different date, perhaps?"

"No."

"Ah." He sat back in his chair. "Is there any possibility you have the wrong name?"

John shook his head. "No. Look, it's Sherlock Holmes and he died on the 16th of June. He jumped off the roof of Bart's."

"Ah, suicide. The suicide book, Mr. Taylor."

"Yes, sir. Mr. Jones, fetch the suicide book."

"Yes, sir. Mr. Smith, fetch the suicide book."

This time, John wasn't distracted and he resisted the urge to smile as Mr. Smith removed a large book from the shelves and handed it to Mr. Jones, who handed it to Mr. Taylor, who handed it reverently to Mr. Williams.

Mr. Williams turned the pages. "Aha! Here's the problem! See here, my lad; you've got the wrong name."

"The wrong -"

"It's not Sherlock Holmes, it's James Moriarty."

John blinked and felt the floor tilt under him. It wasn't possible. Sherlock couldn't have been Moriarty - Richard Brook had been lying...he _had_ to have been lying.

"No wonder I couldn't find him," Mr. Williams continued over the ringing in John's ears. "And no wonder you couldn't sign that contract; it'd take more than one soul to get James Moriarty out of Hell, even temporarily. No, you'd need at least ten and even then you'd be straining it. And he didn't jump. No, it was a gunshot wound to the head. For someone who's willing to resurrect him, you don't know a lot about the fellow."

As the words sank in, the fog cleared from John's vision, and the world righted itself. "What?"

"I said you don't know a lot about the fellow," Mr. Williams said, his voice louder.

"No. Gunshot wound."

"Yes! A gunshot wound to the head - that's how he died. He shot himself in the mouth. Very messy."

John leaned forward. "Sherlock jumped off the roof of Bart's."

Mr. Williams leaned forward to meet him. "James Moriarty shot himself in the head."

"Sherlock wasn't James Moriarty, and I saw him jump." John knew his impatience was showing but he was beyond caring.

"Ah." Mr. Williams sat back. "He couldn't have shot himself on the way down?"

"Why would he do that?"

Mr. Williams shrugged. "Damned if I know. You're sure he jumped?"

"Yes!"

"Right. Mr. Taylor, fetch the Holmes family scroll."

"Yes, sir. Mr. Jones, fetch the Holmes family scroll."

"Yes, sir. Mr. Smith, fetch the Holmes family scroll."

As Mr. Smith hurried off through the side door, the three remaining demons smiled at John. John forced himself to smile back, then hid a sigh of relief as Mr. Smith hurried back in and handed the scroll to Mr. Jones, who handed it to Mr. Taylor, who finally stepped forward and handed it to Mr. Williams.

"Right." Mr. Williams unravelled it. "Sherrinford, Siger, Shhhh..." His voice trailed off as though he'd run out of breath, then he clutched the scroll to his chest and leaned forward. "You didn't tell me who his brother was!"

"What? Who? Mycroft?"

John couldn't understand why they'd care, but Mr. Williams reared back as though an archangel had appeared. "Don't -" He took a breath, produced a large handkerchief and wiped his forehead, then gave a yelp as the phone began to ring.

For a moment, no one moved. John stared at Mr. Williams, then at the other three demons, who'd all taken a large step back from the desk. The phone continued ringing and John said, "Would you like me to get that?"

Mr. Williams batted John's hand away from the phone, then seemed to collect himself and picked up the receiver with a finger and thumb. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes." His tone was deferential in the extreme and John's curiosity grew as Mr. Williams put the scroll down and mopped his forehead again. "Ah, well...yes, we have a Doctor John Watson..." He wiped his forehead again as he listened, then broke out with a, "No, no. No. No contract has been signed."

As he spoke, he jerked his head at the tray and John quickly leaned back as Mr. Smith dashed forward, grabbed the tray and chucked the whole lot - contract, inkwells, tray and all - into the fire.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes... Not at all, Mr. Holmes... Good afternoon to you, sir." Mr. Williams replaced the receiver, wiped his forehead and stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket before fixing John with a rigid smile. "Well, Doctor Watson, as you can see, Mr. Sherlock Holmes is not dead."

John caught a glimpse of the bottom of the scroll before it was quickly rolled up. "What?"

"If there's anything else we can do, please feel free to never darken our doorstep again." Mr. Williams gestured to the other demons and John found himself being lifted to his feet by Mr. Taylor and Mr. Jones.

As they escorted him to the doors and through to Mr. Taylor's office, John could hear Mr. Williams saying, "Goodbye," then the doors slammed shut behind them.

"Interesting," Mr. Taylor murmured in his ear as John was all but carried across the room. "So kind. Goodbye."

Mr. Smith took Mr. Taylor's place, then they were in Mr. Jones's office and John heard Mr. Taylor's doors close behind them.

"Thank you for coming, Doctor uh...uh... Goodbye." Mr. Jones released John's arm, stepped back into his office and the doors closed firmly.

Mr. Smith had sweat running down his forehead, but he managed a smile as he gently escorted John out of his office and into the lobby. The unnamed demon at the front desk put the phone down and gave John a terrified look, then he ran to the front door and yanked it open. Looking out, John was astonished to see a familiar black car waiting for him, with Anthea in the back seat. He stepped out onto the doorstep and turned, then took a step back as the front door slammed shut and he heard the sound of several bolts being rammed home.

After a minute or two, he shut his mouth and went over to the car, feeling as though he was walking on air. His mind was filled with, 'Sherlock is alive!' but all he said was, "Mycroft wants to see me, does he?" Anthea nodded at him, and John nodded back. "Yeah, I want to see him too."

By the time the car reached the Diogenes Club, John's euphoria had abated somewhat and been replaced by a sick, uncertain feeling that was rapidly turning into anger. Sherlock was alive - and he'd left John to grieve for him for the past three months. The car stopped and John threw open the door and practically ran down the path. There was an escort waiting for him and, as he turned and began to lead the way at a steady pace, John followed, practically treading on the man's heels in his hurry. He barely gave the man time to knock on a door before John pushed past and opened the door himself. The door shut behind him and he blurted out, "Sherlock's alive." Mycroft gazed at him, no surprise on his face, and what was left of John's happiness dissipated entirely. "You knew."

"Sit down, John."

John held onto the back of the armchair, disbelief warring with his anger as he repeated, "You knew."

Mycroft sighed, then answered, "Yes."

John's hands clutched tighter at the armchair as he fought the urge to punch the smug bastard in the face. Mycroft knew. Sherlock had told _Mycroft_ but left John to spend the past three months grieving, devastated that his best friend was dead.

"Moriarty hired hitmen to kill you, Detective Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

"Moriarty's dead," John said automatically, as his mind tried to make sense of the non-sequitur.

"The demons told you that, did they?" Mycroft shook his head. "How indiscreet."

"So Moriarty's hitmen -"

"Had orders to kill you unless Sherlock jumped," Mycroft interrupted, his voice harsh. "With Moriarty dead, there was no way to stop them. Sherlock had to fake his death in order to protect you."

"But..." John's fury died down a little and he could think again. "Why stay dead? Once Moriarty was gone -"

"Moriarty's network is still active. The world believes Sherlock is dead; he's able to work in the dark...and remove the inner circle."

And there was no place for John at Sherlock's side. Mycroft didn't have to say it for John to know it was true; his grief provided cover for Sherlock. Even now, knowing the truth, John would have to stay in London and mourn a man who wasn't dead. It was the only way to protect Sherlock.

Defeated and tired, John sat down and accepted the glass of whiskey Mycroft handed him. "How long?"

"For as long as it takes."

John swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, revelling in the burn of it all the way down. He was a soldier, and now he had to stay behind, stay safe, while Sherlock fought on the front line alone. And there was nothing he could do without exposing Sherlock to danger. "Who else knows?"

"Only those who were necessary in helping Sherlock fake his death."

It was a small comfort. "Lestrade?"

"No. I should imagine his anger will almost equal yours."

It would...assuming Sherlock came back alive. John hoped he'd get to see Greg's reaction. He drank some more whiskey and tried to look on the bright side; at least Sherlock was alive, for now. At least he might return. That was more hope than John had had - outside of that contract, anyway.

Which reminded him... It was probably unwise to provoke Mycroft but John was honestly curious. "You're not a demon, are you?"

He took a spiteful delight in almost having made Mycroft choke on his whiskey. "My dear John!"

"You can't be an angel."

Mycroft finished dabbing spots off his tie and put his handkerchief away, his gaze meeting John's. "I'm as human as you are."

John rather doubted that. "Then how did you know?"

There was a gleam of mischief in Mycroft's eyes.

"You haven't bugged their offices!" And John thought _he_ liked to live dangerously.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

John leaned back in his chair and resisted the urge to scoff loudly; he recognised an official, governmental denial when he heard one. He swallowed another mouthful of whiskey, then asked, "Now what?"

"Now you forget."

"Forget?" John could never forget. And, unlike Sherlock, he never would want to forget. He realised Mycroft was gazing at the glass in John's hand, and he looked down, then tried to sit up straight in shock. "You drugged me!"

"Yes." John stared at him in disbelief as Mycroft continued, "It's the only way, John. You will forget, no matter how much you wish otherwise. Now, go to sleep."

As though the words dissolved his will, John's eyes slid shut.

~~~

John opened his eyes and yawned, then sat up straight so fast he almost wrenched his back. It couldn't be six o'clock already. He'd only shut his eyes for a minute before putting his shoes on, and now it was six o'clock and the damned place (literally, in this case) would be shut. Shaking his head in disbelief that he'd been that tired, John got up from his seat and headed into the kitchen area of his tiny bedsit. It was strange, he thought idly as he poured milk into his mug, that demons would stick to such a rigid schedule, almost like an old fashioned bank. He stopped, staring at his mug as a wisp of memory floated through his mind, then shook his head as it eluded him. It must have been something he'd seen on the telly.

He'd just have to go to the address the next day, that was all there was to it. It had taken him long enough to get the actual address - everyone _knew_ of it, knew someone, a friend of a friend, who'd been there - but getting hold of an actual address had been more difficult than John would have thought. In any case, waiting one more day wouldn't hurt.

~~~

John looked down at the paper in his hand, then back up at the address in front of him. This was it. He looked at the building next door and checked their number, then the one on the other side. Yes, this was definitely it. Only...there was nothing there.

There ought, John thought, to be a building in the middle. But there wasn't. John checked the paper in his hand again. The numbers on the other buildings bore out his belief that there should be a building, a number seventeen to go with their fifteen and nineteen. He looked harder at the gaping space, thinking that maybe he'd somehow missed a building. It was utterly impossible that there wouldn't be a building there, even if he'd got the wrong address completely. But there wasn't. No matter how hard he stared, his eyes informed him that yes, there was a large gap in the middle of the two buildings, and it was just the right size for another building to fit in.

He walked up the path, through the tiny forecourt of gravel surrounded by wrought iron railings, and stared at where the doorstep was meant to be. Buildings just didn't disappear, but that's what it looked like this one had done. Upped and gone in the middle of the night, like a rent-defaulting tenant.

"Strange, isn't it?"

John jumped at the sound and turned on the spot to stare at the man leaning against the wrought iron railings. "Uh, sorry, what?"

The man grinned at him, cosying up to the railings as though he were propping up the bar in John's local and about to discuss the football scores. "That," he said, nodding his head to the large space where the building wasn't. "Went in the middle of the night, it did. You should've seen the crowd here this morning." He laughed, a wheezy sound, hinting at lungs that were well acquainted with forty cigarettes a day. "They didn't linger though. Well, they wouldn't. Too worried that lot might come back and start talking to 'em."

"Went?"

The man nodded. "Gone. Not a sound either. Not that they're sorry," he added, a reassuring tone in his voice. "It's not what you want in the neighbourhood, is it?"

John managed to collect his wits. "Do you know where they've gone to?"

"Nah, not a clue. Not like that type'd leave a forwarding address...well, apart from the obvious one." He laughed again. "I'd say try the landlord but it's all government buildings 'round here, so you won't get no answers from them."

"Government..." John stared at the empty space. Mycroft couldn't have...could he? Even Mycroft couldn't make a whole building disappear.

"Not that it's any of my business," the creaky voice continued, "but, er...what did you want with them anyway?"

John closed his hand around the paper, crumpling it up in his pocket. "I don't suppose it matters now."

"Oh, one of them." After a moment, he added, "Take my advice, mate, and stay away from them. It's not what you want, something like that hanging over you. No one would want that for you, would they?"

John breathed heavily through his nose, then marched back down the path. "Thanks for the advice."

As John passed him, the man said, "Which you won't take." He didn't sound offended, he even smiled - a slight, rueful, quirk of his lips - as John stopped and turned to stare at him. "No one takes unasked for advice. It's never what they want to hear, is it?"

"How did you know?"

The smile widened. "I've seen them all - the good, the bad, the indifferent. They all came here. And quite a few of them came stumbling out in shock that they had nothing left to bargain with." His knowing gaze looked John up and down. "Not you though - you could've signed. But nobody would want that for you." He leaned over and plucked the paper from John's pocket. "Best to leave them alone, John Watson."

He turned and walked away, ignoring John's demand of, "How did you know my name?"

As John followed him, he sped up, turning the corner of the street quickly. John broke into a trot, then a flat out run, then stopped at the corner, staring around. The long street was empty and the man was gone.

For a moment, John stood still, trying to ignore the way his heart was hammering. The man couldn't have just disappeared...unless he wasn't human, that was. He'd _seemed_ human, though that didn't guarantee a thing. John took a deep breath, then another. The man had probably ducked into one of the tiny gardens the area specialised in and was lurking out of sight, that was all. He debated searching, then turned away and headed home. Even if the man was still around, he'd undoubtedly find it easy to avoid being spotted.

By the time John got to his street, he'd made up his mind to get back in touch with Bill, the friend who'd reluctantly handed over the business address that had so suddenly turned into an empty space. Bill would argue, John was sure of it, but it was the only way. The thoughts of Bill's arguing vanished as John spotted the posh black car outside his building. "Mycroft," he sighed.

Putting his shoulders back, John marched into battle. Unsurprisingly, the car door opened as he approached and Mycroft smiled at him from the back seat.

"John, do please get in."

After a moment, John did while mentally acknowledging his curiosity as to what Mycroft wanted now, and whether it could possibly be coincidence that the demons'...landlord was the government and here was a 'minor official' on his doorstep.

John took his time settling himself into his seat, taking a small and petty delight in making Mycroft wait. Once he was comfortable, he looked over and said, "Mycroft. What can I do for you?"

"You can stop asking people where to find the nearest - or any other - demons' office," Mycroft replied, surprising John by coming so quickly and so bluntly to the point.

John pursed his lips. "I might be wrong, but I don't think that's any of your business."

"You'd be surprised."

"No, I don't think I would." As Mycroft opened his mouth, John continued, "If I choose to sign a contract for Sherlock's life, that's my business, not yours."

"I'm afraid it's very much my business, John. I won't allow you to sign a contract."

That just added to the annoyance John had been feeling over the day's frustrations. "Why? Jealous because you won't - or can't - sign a contract for him?"

There was a look in Mycroft's eyes that suggested the barb had gone home, but his tone was mild. "You won't be able to enter any demons' offices, John, so give it up."

And that, as the saying goes, was that. John tried; he got another address from Bill, then another useless address after that, when the second address turned out to be another empty space. After that, Bill refused to discuss the issue with him at all and even went so far as to hang up on John. It wasn't until spring was almost over that John finally accepted Sherlock wouldn't be resurrected at all. It left John wondering how exactly Mycroft had managed to stop him so successfully; demons were supposed to make deals with _anyone_ suitable. John thought Mycroft couldn't have that much influence with demons...could he?

Of course, about eighteen months after that, Sherlock returned, whole and reasonably healthy, with no demon intervention needed at all.

Though John still had his suspicions about Mycroft.

The end.


End file.
